A Bonnie Fechter

by Sheila Templeton

That winter, snaw flew its feathers thick
smoorichin the hale Rannoch Moor.
I thocht the warld wud be white for iver.
Danny the Keeper said the stags
wud have tae come doon,
else they¹d sterve tae death.

We¹d niver seen red deer afore.
But these beasts wernae ony shade o red.
Ivery day as the licht hid ahint the Black Mounth,
they floated ower the high fence at the side o the line,
sepia angels biggen a brig ower cloudy drifts
against a grape slate sky. I thocht their hooves
could niver touch the grun,

until the day we heard a scraping
ootside the kitchen door. He was big.
His antlers telt a lang story, a hero¹s story,
of territory defended and hinds protected.
He eased back a bittie, but didnae flee.
At my mither¹s nod, I threw the tattie peelings
scudding intae the kirned up khaki snaw.

And waited and watched while he took his time,
his fine big heid lowered wi nae loss o dignity.
And so he lat me feed him ivery day, as the licht
left the sky. Nae to touch or stroke, but he¹d lat me
look intae his een and watch him,

until the day he didnae come.The day I looked
and shouted and poked aboot the frosty dyke.
But nae use. My pail o slippy tattie parings frozen
in the night where I¹d left it. I splashed bilin water
tae saften it for him. But nae sign. Winter gnawed on,

until Danny the Keeper said ower a nip and a fag
ŒThon¹s a grand auld beast deid doon by the burn.
Funny that. How they hide awa, when they ken
it¹s their time. Like an auld war hero. Like ony
bonnie fechter fan he kens his time is up.¹